STATELY, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.
And then went down to the ship, / Set keel to breakers, forth on the godly sea, and
In the river lie soaked pita bread, colouring material, mud and trash / As I look at the river
To read Eliot, for me, is to feel the presence of the abyss;
The Moose / From narrow provinces / of fish and bread and tea, / home of the long tides
As you set out for Ithaka / hope the voyage is a long one, / full of adventure, full of discovery.
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter, / And when he cried the little children died in the streets.
here’s a bluebird in my heart that / wants to get out
What had you been thinking about, the face studiously bloodied, heaven blotted region
Seven free-verse hymns with a refrain, each hymn describing a new stage of Creation, of Man, of Day....
In poetry, content and form are essentially the same things. They are interwoven in the realm of imagination.
The night isn’t dark; the world is dark. Stay with me a little longer.
No rain the whole summer, This is the first rain of the autumn, Rain outside the window
I walk through the long schoolroom questioning; A kind old nun in a white hood replies;
How to tell it all? Referring to what chronicles?
He saw her from the bottom of the stairs
Before she saw him. She was starting down,
There was a country where they were all thieves.
Compared to darkness, our eyes have become accustomed to light, and if we are exposed to an excessive amount of light, we may even start perceiving darkness itself as 'light.'
Teucer: . . . in sea-girt Cyprus, where it was decreed
Summer was killed with the first drop of rain
Moistening the words that had given birth to starlight.
it so happened that a secretary of raikom
set out in the summer of ‘32 in his official car to the Karaganda region
To go to Lvov. Which station
for Lvov, if not in a dream, at dawn, when dew
Out of the corpse-warm foyer of heaven steps thesun.
There it is not the immortals,
but rather the fallen, we perceive.
Midnight. Just wrote a poem. I walked outdoors.
Misty. Cloudy. A grey sky, shrunken, starless
All around, a low, sinking mist
A feeling that everything is disappearing
Mary, in her twilight years
was fetching water
at the dim stone well